Today our plan to drive to Castellare was quickly disabused.  Rob’s initial assessment of a walk of about ten metres, became a full-on, foot pilgrimage up the switchback route to the tiny hilltop church near the town of Vicopisano.  Castellare was a military outpost in the time of the Etruscans (about 500 B.C.) because it provides a viewpoint all the way along the valley of the Arno River towards the port city of Livorno (where we were a couple of days ago).  In the times following the Renaissance, a small church was built on the site and it became a place of religious significance, with a special wooden painted crucifix being installed within the church in 1723.  The church was structurally damaged during WWII, and again in 2017 by an accidental explosion!  But a hardy band of local volunteer historians have restored and maintained it since.  And, once you have made your way up the hill on foot, its a lovely place for a rest and a cool drink.
We then went to see the town of Vicopisano and called in, on spec, to a trattoria called DiVizie, run by Nicolo who claims to be named for St Nicholas.  He was true to the spirit of giving because, despite being busy with the night’s pre-dinner preparations, he brought us - completely unbidden - four samples of his delicious tiramisu while we were sampling a bottle of rosè.  He’s obviously a canny operator, because his generosity and friendliness led to us making a booking to go back for dinner tomorrow night.  Reports will follow.
Our day ended with a lovely dinner with Gordo and Mitch at La Nonna Clara in Lucca.  They are moving on tomorrow to Bologna, and it has been a real pleasure to spend some time with them here in Tuscany.  So that was a special thing, and the food was wonderful, but the highlight of the night was when our waiter asked me quietly if I was Italian!  I modestly assured him I was not.  There were people sitting quite close to me who loudly suggested that he was demonstrating the kind of top level sarcasm that Italian waiters save for pretentious twats who think they can speak the language.  To that, I say, Che mucchio di spazzature!

We enjoyed an alfresco lunch in the Piazza dell’Anfiteatro yesterday, which helped a tiny bit to ease the disappointment of The Cats’ loss to Brisbane in the AFL Grand Final.  I fancied some Spaghetti Cacio e Pepe and noticed a side dish of sautéed herbs which I thought I would order with it.  The menu listing for the sautéed herbs, in Italian, is erbato saltate.  So, when the waitress took our orders I trotted mine out in the style of the urbane, Italian speaking traveller that - in my mind - I am.  Turns out; not so urbane.  In my clumsiness I asked for “erbato saltare”, which cracked our waitress up because, she explained between guffaws, saltare means “to jump”.  And this is not the first time!  On another occasion, after the females in our party had been looking at statues of perfect male virility, we had a waiter who smiled wistfully and waggled his index finger at us.  “No, no.  Not pene.  Pene is a very different thing!”

Gordo and Mitch, who had been at the villa with us for a few nights, relocated their camp to within the city walls so they could have a good look at Lucca before moving on.  Their apartment was literally within the walls of the Anfiteatro which once was an elliptical shaped Roman amphitheater that held 10 000 spectators.  Over subsequent centuries the seating and surrounding walls became residences and store-houses, and many are now apartments for tourists, such as the one Gordo and Mitch were staking a claim to.  Theirs was up one flight of stairs, but no ordinary stairs!  It turns out that, centuries ago, nobody realised that the modern tourist might be dragging their overpacked suitcases up these treads.

We also had an interesting encounter when sitting in a laneway enjoying a glass of wine.  In our pre-trip planning, Dory and I had watched about 10 000 YouTube videos about life in this part of Italy, including some on a channel called Authentic Tuscany, hosted by Maria and Lorenzo who live in the nearby village of Vicopisano.  Anyway, whilst we were sipping our wine the very same Maria and Lorenzo wandered past our table as they were showing Lucca to their visiting friends from Florida.

Dory told me once that sunflowers (Helianthus annuus), having spent their entire existence following the daily path of the sun across the summer sky, all die facing towards the east.  Ever since then I have been looking for evidence to dispel that theory.  Its the beginning of autumn here and today we were out and about on the Tuscan valley plain (more about that shortly - this is not ALL about the sadness of sunflowers).  We happened to drive past some commercial crops of sunflowers which had expired and were awaiting harvest.  Without exception, each of them was bowed towards the east.
This filled me with melancholy.  I imagined the poor old sunflower near the end of his natural life, having tracked the summer sun daily from east to west across the sky, summoning up his diminishing strength at the end of one day to return to face the east, only to find that effort was in vain and he would never track the sun again!
Needless to say, my travelling companions mocked my empathy for the sunflower.  When I told them I was going to express my melancholy in the form of poetry, they mocked again, then turned to AI to avoid full consideration of the fate of the poor old Helianthus.  I, on the other hand, confronted the issue, did the hard yards myself and wrote a haiku and a limerick in honour of the sunflower, and I share them with you here:

​Sun’s diurnal path
Traced by sunflower ranks
Who quit to the east.

 … or …

A self aware sunflower called Fred
All his life chased the Sun with his head
With his strength at its least
He turned to the east
And woke up to find himself dead. 
​

Apart from the sad plight of the sunflowers, we had another lovely day.  We found our way to the beautiful hilltop fortress of Montecatini Alto where we wandered the ancient cobbled streets and enjoyed an alfresco lunch, before retracing our steps past the sad ranks of sunflowers and back to our villa.

Our host, Luisa, offered us the opportunity of a tour around points of interest in this region that were not easily accessible by train.  So, with her legendarily patient husband, Damiano, as our driver, and Luisa as our guide, we set off on a Wednesday morning in an 8 seater Renault van to the hills to the north of Lucca.
Our first stop was the village of Borgo a Mozzano where, as it turns out, Luisa used to live and where she married Damiano.  Its a charming little town which was celebrating the harvest season and the approach to Halloween, and the shops were decorated for the season.  
Borgo a Mozzano is on the shores of the Serchio River, which is the third largest river in Italy and takes a bit of getting across.  The Serchio is also directly in the path of the medieval pilgrims’ route from England, via Rome, to the Holy Lands known as the Via Francigena.  So bridges, or at least one of them, became important for pilgrimage and the economic benefits that came along with it. About a thousand years ago work began on a bridge over the Serchio just outside Borgo a Mozzano.  It became known as the Ponte della Meddalena, but these days is better known as the Ponte del Diavolo (Bridge of the Devil) because of a legend associated with its construction.  Whether the work of the Devil or not, its a very impressive structure and a thing of beauty to behold.
We had been keen on seeing Bagni di Lucca (The Baths of Lucca), a town built around some thermal springs known about since the time of the Etruscans and Romans.  While there, we noticed the lovely Ninfa Hotel and were invited in by a staff member to have a look around.  It has a magnificent terrace overlooking the river and the hotel would be a perfect spot for a couple of days to recharge the batteries.
Dory and I had been keen to visit Collodi, the town which claims to be the home of the story of Pinocchio.  These days, the Pinocchio thing is a tacky theme park with cheap souvenirs and expensive entry fees.  But the town has a couple of imposing villas, including one stark looking place occupied by German forces during WWII.
We were refreshed by being whisked off to the hilltop town of Montecarlo amongst olive orchards and vineyards in the hills east of Lucca.  Montecarlo is a beautiful hilltop town, even when you arrive just as the Main Street is blocked off for a funeral.  We stood respectfully while the service ended and the mourners moved away, and the whole scene just added poignancy to our visit.  Montecarlo is lovely.  When you visit this region (as you should), go there!
We ended our day and our tour on the north western side of Lucca, just above the Serchio, at the magnificent Fattoria al Dotto vineyard.  Our host, Giacomo, introduced us to his father, explained that his grandparents were buried in the grounds of the small church on the property, and told us about his development of the olive groves and the vineyard.  “I think my grandparents would be proud of what we have done here.”  We tried six of the lovely wines, along with a small plates menus to match each wine, and were just a little bit gibbery when we left at about 8 o’clock that evening with several bottles of Fattoria al Dotto tucked under our arms.

In the Ufizzi Gallery last week we saw a striking painting by Alonso Berruguete of Salome holding a platter bearing the head of John The Baptist.  It turns out, according to Matthew 14, that the demise of JTB occurred at the time of Salome’s famous dance which has become known as the dance of the seven veils.  
Without even knowing any of that, I had begun to think of this village we are staying in as a place which shrouds its charms in veils.  In our pre-trip planning, and on our arrival, all we could see was a series of narrow, cobbled laneways and plenty of stone buildings of several centuries in age.  There was no obvious commercial centre of the village.  No piazza or obvious community gathering space.  There were no obvious outlets for groceries, meat or any other commodity.  No pubs.  Nor any general store.
What we now know - and I suspect we are only scratching the surface of local knowledge - is that the local bread shop contains the most delicious breads, sweet loaves and pastries, and that they are baked in a commercial bakery hidden in a stone building immediately over the street.  Every morning the bread shop is a hub of community chatter - a community water-cooler, if you like - and the locals love to assist the clumsy non-Italian speakers ordering their bread.  I have become besotted with the Buccelato di Lucca, a raisin and anise flavoured sweet bread which smells like panettone.  Local legend, as explained by the Ladies of the Bakery says: Chi viene a Lucca e non mangia il buccellato è come non ci fosse mai stato (Anyone who comes to Lucca and doesn’t eat buccellato is as if they’ve never been here.)
Roberta, the matriarch of one of the two local butcher shops, produces a smile like a split melon and a welcoming stream of Italian whenever you go into the cunningly disguised shop, which looks like every other doorway in the village except for the red and white insect curtain over the entrance (and, we have discovered, the inscription Macelleria above the door).  I’ve not been in there yet when she has not sliced open a cured sausage and thrust some at me insisting that I try it immediately.
Rosetta, the local grocer has a store in the village so cunningly hidden that I have not found it yet.  But we know Rosetta quite well by now because on Tuesdays and Thursdays she drives her tiny flat tray truck around the village, stops outside our gate and calls out in a sing-song manner to let you know that she is ready to do business.
We have been to four local trattoria, all of which have delightful food and service.  Bar Alma, which is down on the main road near the bus stop, is a very active social hub and the car park is full every morning that we go down there to catch the bus.
Most evenings, there are informal gatherings in the neighbourhood back yards, and the sounds of chatter and laughter carry up to our bedroom window of a night time - mixed with the sounds of Vespas, geese, dogs (particularly Pepe and Brad), roosters and asthmatic donkeys.
Hidden behind the several veils of Colle di Compito is a village which, I suspect, has all the drawbacks of any tiny village anywhere in the world.  But there is no doubt that it is an active and vibrant community and I feel that we have been welcomed into it.

I got myself a Lucca haircut today.  I’m in danger of being like the sax player in The Commitments who got kicked out of the band for getting a “jazz haircut”.
My goodness, Lucca is gorgeous!  We started the day with brunch at Cafe Santa Zita in which I spied the coffee machine to which I aspire.  Then we popped into the World’s Greatest Wine Shop and Cellar (Enoteca Vanni) which is mind blowing.  They have in excess of 50 000 bottles of wine in there and I will include some photos which simply do not do justice to the scope of the cellar.  In the coming weeks we will go back and book a wine tasting.  We spent a lazy hour or so in the Piazza dell’Anfiteatro watching other tourists who were equally watching us.  Finally we hired a biceclette and a couple of pushbikes and did a lap of the walls, before returning to our villa for a quiet evening tasting the spoils of our visit to Enoteca Vanni.
Did I mention that Lucca is gorgeous?

​Quite deservedly, I cop a fair amount of stick about the degree to which I obsess over all kinds of details such as, say, a planned trip to Tuscany for a month.  And even I will admit that I might have given a fair bit of forethought to our arrival in Lucca.  And so, to walk through the Porta San Pietro and find myself inside the walled city - a place I had viewed and imagined from afar for so long - was somewhat overwhelming.  We had time for a short stroll through parts of the city before it was time to collect the rental car we had pre-booked and head to our villa in the hills nearby.  But we will be returning to the inside of the walls for much more exploration in coming weeks.
I have never driven a left hand drive car before, and never driven in Europe.  So our first few miles in the rented Ford Kuga included a few moments of raised eyebrows and tightened grip as my passengers wondered about the wisdom of getting into the car with me, and I struggled to come to terms with the fact that there was a whole lot of car on my right hand side which had never been there before!  Anyway, we made it to a small supermarket (a chain called Conad, even as much as Jeannie wanted to name if after an organ of reproduction) and purchased some supplies, before negotiating ever narrowing roads up to the tiny village of Colle di Compito where we will be living for the next month.
​The villa and the village are an absolute delight.  In addition to a beautifully appointed full kitchen in the main house, the villa also has a separate wood-fired kitchen for the making of bread and pizza.  The village is even more delightful, and we had a lovely moment yesterday when we opened the gate to the street to find the local mobile green grocer, Rosella, outside the gate with a huge selection of high quality fruit and veg.  As a result of that, and a visit to the local bakery and the local butcher, dinner last night was Panzanella (bread salad) for primo (first course), followed by sausages with peach, prosciutto and mozzarella salad for secondo (second course).
We’ve had some quite heavy rain over the last couple of days, but that did not stop me having a glass of Chianti Classico and a long soak in the jacuzzi.  
Rob Reid is trundling his way towards us as I tap out this post.  He should be with us for dinner tonight which will be at a local trattoria.
Also, thousands of miles away, Nika Bennett is enjoying a personal milestone and we are thinking of her.
Happy days.

I remember reflecting on Rome when we visited years ago, and realising how much I loved it there despite, or perhaps because of, its contrasts and chaos.  In many ways Florence is same, same, but different.  This is a city of extraordinary beauty, history and heritage and, because of that, it drowns in tourists (like us) and tourist culture.  Nevertheless, I’ve really enjoyed it here.  
Despite needing to work around the national rail strike, we arrived on Friday afternoon within a few hours of our original schedule, and settled quickly into our B&B.  We caught up with Jeannie Reid and wandered the city for a few hours, taking in the magnificence of places I had only ever seen in photographs and video.
Prior to leaving home, Michelle and I had heard about the Buon Ricordo (Good Memories) restaurant scheme across Italy.  All participating restaurants have a special regional dish or menu which is commemorated on a hand-decorated plate that is particular to that restaurant.  If you visit and order the special menu, you get to go home with a commemorative plate.  There are 3 Buon Ricordo restaurants within walking distance of our digs, and we tried without success on Friday afternoon to book one of them for that evening, but could not get a response to our emails.  Jeannie proposed a walk to one of them in the hope that we could get a table, and we did.  We dined and were greatly entertained by Adriano and Claudio at Trattoria Il Francescano, in the shadows of the Basilica of Santa Croce.  It was a fabulous evening.
Saturday was a magnificent day full of art, culture, and beers in the shade by the river.  We saw original works by Botticelli, Da Vinci, and Carravaggio; walked along the 460 year old Vasari Corridor which was only opened to the public last year; saw more priceless Renaissance art at the Palazzo Pitti; sat in the shade of trees by the Arno River and drank beer; soaked in the views at the Piazzale Michelangelo and dined at a pizzeria back in the city.
On Sunday morning we made our way to our agreed place of meeting with Jeannie, only to find that her arrival was heralded by a parade of drummers, musicians, and soldiers in brightly coloured historical costumes.  Jeannie will do anything to make an entrance!
We had planned to attend mass at the Duomo and listen to the Gregorian chant, but arrived to find the Duomo closed to the public for the day.  So we regrouped and, building on the lessons of Friday evening, made our way to Ristorante Regina Bistecca to successfully make a booking for our second Buon Ricordo menu feast: the famous Bistecca alla Fiorentina.

It is worth remembering (I think, anyway) that when you travel from Australia to Europe you stretch time.  Each step westward from one time zone to the next takes you back 1 hour, meaning you have spent n hours to advance n-1 in real time.  In those terms, we were stretching time by 9 hours by travelling from eastern Australia to Central European Time.
​
We elected to spread that ‘time stretch’ over the course of three full days of travel.  In practical terms, that felt like we had three 27 hour days in airports and planes.  At the time of writing, we have been in Rome for just under a full day, which is enough time I think to gauge the effects of that slow progress on our body clocks.  I feel fine, and completely absent of jet lag.  I woke this morning at around 5am and my body clock feels completely in synch with the movement of the sun across the sky and the rhythm of the city.

Once we left Melbourne we elected to stay ‘airside’ (that is, within the airport transit zones) and to stay in transit hotels within those zones.  At the end of each day’s flight leg (no more than 8 hours flying) we were able to access a shower, a proper bed and a decent meal, and start the next ‘27 hour day’ relatively refreshed.  Rooms in the transit hotels are not cheap, and I reckon the strategy added about $500 each to the cost of our journey from Devonport to Rome.  Thats around 25%-30% of our airfares.  When compared to an upgraded service like Premium Economy (add about 100% to the economy fare), that seems to me to be a pretty good balance.  At least, it worked for our particular circumstances.

I’m a convert to the theory of slowing your travel progress.  Of course, the ‘cost’ of the strategy is that it diminishes the time you have to experience the places you are travelling to.  Everything is a balancing act, and I think we got this one pretty right.